


all i’ve ever known is how to hold my own (but now i wanna hold you, too)

by stolethekey



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, and probably would've been longer if law school wasn't kicking my ass, buckle up kids this one is long, for the b99 summer fic exchange, this was so fun to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stolethekey/pseuds/stolethekey
Summary: Charles grabs Jake’s arm, ignoring his profuse questions and demands, and drags him to the side of the room. On the way, he gestures at Rosa, who is currently in conversation with a woman Jake has never seen before.“That’s Amy,” Charles explains unnecessarily. “Santiago. The new teacher.”“Yeah, I got that.”-or, the high school teacher au
Relationships: Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago
Comments: 25
Kudos: 120
Collections: Summer 2020 Fic Exchange





	all i’ve ever known is how to hold my own (but now i wanna hold you, too)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ravensarefree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravensarefree/gifts).



> this was the most fun i've had writing a fic in a LONG time holy shit!! i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it <3

Jake Peralta hates the summer.

It’s hot and muggy outside, which he hates more than anything, and it’s the opposite of Christmas, which means it’s the opposite of _Die Hard_ and holiday parties and free-flowing booze.

Plus, if he’s being honest, he misses his job.

John Roebling High isn’t exactly an exceptional school; it’s solidly average on every list ranking Brooklyn high schools, and in most ways, it is precisely what one would expect a conventional American high school to be.

Except his colleagues are awesome, and so are his kids, and every day he spends with them makes him a happier person.

So he hates the summer, and he wiles away the hours movie-hopping and sipping large orange sodas with Charles, reminiscing about the semesters past and looking forward to the semesters ahead.

“Gina said there’s gonna be a new teacher this year,” Charles says conversationally, wincing slightly as they step out of the air-conditioned theater and onto the sidewalk. “Some Ivy-league grad. She’s teaching classic literature, or something.”

Jake stops to throw his popcorn bucket into the trash and raises his eyebrows. “We _never_ get new teachers. And _classic lit_? Why do we need that when we already have AP Lit? What is this, some kind of private religious school?”

“You teach film,” Charles reminds him. “That’s not exactly standard public-school fare, either.”

“I—well, I just don’t get why an Ivy grad would ever want to teach at John Roebling. Not because we’re not awesome, but because—”

“We’re too cool for that stuffy, snobbish shit. Yeah.”

There’s a beat, and then Charles says, “Holt invited her to our school-year kickoff party.”

Jake nearly spits out his drink. “He _what?!_ ”

“It makes sense, I guess. She’s a teacher. All the other teachers go.”

“All the other teachers are _friends_ ,” Jake grumbles, and privately he wonders if this is the year the magic dies.

-

Raymond Holt’s school-year kickoff parties are Jake’s favorite part of summer.

They’re as close to ragers as is appropriate for a bunch of high school teachers and their principal to throw, which is to say that they’re not ragers at all—but both alcohol and warm conversation flow freely and abundantly, so who is Jake to complain?

He maneuvers around Holt’s house with practiced ease, smiling at his colleagues and stopping by the shrimp platter a little more often than necessary. At one point, Hitchcock corners him in the kitchen and bestows upon him an incredibly long, scripted pitch for what is clearly a pyramid scheme. Jake pops Skittles into his mouth one at a time, nodding with what he hopes is believable interest, and once his bowl is empty he decides it’s time to leave.

“That sounds great,” he says, patting Hitchcock on the shoulder and ducking under his arm. “I’ll let you know.”

“But I didn’t even finish—”

“Sorry!” Jake calls, spotting and making a beeline for a familiar shade of khaki in the living room. “Boyle needs me!”

Charles turns at the sound of his name, rolling his eyes as he waits for Jake to approach. “Did he give you the Nutriboom pitch too?”

“Yeah, it was terrible—”

“Well, good, because that’s gonna make what I’m about to do seem a lot better.”

Charles grabs Jake’s arm, ignoring his profuse questions and demands, and drags him to the side of the room. On the way, he gestures at Rosa, who is currently in conversation with a woman Jake has never seen before.

“That’s Amy,” Charles explains unnecessarily. “Santiago. The new teacher.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

His first thought is that she’s younger than he expected. His second thought is interrupted by Rosa and Santiago’s conversation.

“You have a lot of opinions on this,” Rosa says gruffly.

“I’m just saying!” Santiago’s voice is bright, and her eyes are shining with the excitement Jake reserves exclusively for sour candy and action movies. “Emily Brontë is the worst Brontë sister and that is entirely because she wrote _Wuthering Heights_ , which _sucks ass._ ”

“I’ve gotta say,” Jake says loudly, sidling up beside Rosa. “I never thought I’d hear such a boring topic discussed with some enthusiasm.”

Santiago turns toward him, her voice indignant when she answers. “I teach classic lit, I should hope that I’d care about it.” The indignation fades she takes him in, replaced by a recognition that Jake finds slightly unsettling. “Oh. Holt told me about you. You must be Jake.”

“And you must be fun at parties.”

She shakes his outstretched hand, her mouth twisting into a wry smile. “I was under the impression that I was currently at a party.”

“I—you are,” Jake stammers. “This is.” He glances at Charles for help. Charles beams at him. Jake wrenches his gaze back towards Amy, who has allowed a slightly smug expression to float onto her face.

“Well, you let me know whether your prediction turns out to be true,” she says evenly, then nods politely at Rosa. “I’m gonna grab another drink.”

Jake glowers at her back until it disappears into the kitchen. When he turns, Rosa has a supremely superior smirk on her face.

“What?” He demands.

“Nothing,” Rosa says, her smirk growing even wider. “I’m just excited for the year.”

-

Jake pushes the encounter from his mind until the first day of school.

On the first day of school, he figures it’s unavoidable, so he allows himself to think about Amy Santiago and her smug smile and the sense of superiority that her presence exudes. He sends a quick prayer to the gods that he doesn’t have to interact with her until lunch, when his stomach is going to be full and his patience more abundant.

He’s strolling down the hallway towards the classroom he’s inhabited for the past eight years when he notices that the door to the room across from his is open.

“This classroom’s been out of use for five years,” he says loudly, heading towards the door. “You can’t use it to study, sorry, but the library’s—”

His voice breaks off as he arrives at the doorway to see Amy, standing at the whiteboard and looking innocently at him.

“Oh,” he says stupidly. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t know—”

“It’s okay,” she says, waving her marker at the room. “They had it cleaned up for me over the summer.”

“Right.” Jake pauses, then permits himself to look around. She’s put her own touch on the room already—the wall beside him is bare, but there are five formidable bookshelves along the back wall, somehow already overflowing with what he’s sure are hefty novels. There’s a podium by her desk (a _podium?_ honestly) and a truly impressive stack of papers that he’s fairly certain are her lecture notes.

He hasn’t typed out lecture notes in years.

Jake takes a deep breath, then steps forward. “Well, I’m in the room across the hall, so maybe we should—ah—have ourselves better introduction. I’m Jake. Peralta. I teach film. ”

She’s wearing a full pantsuit, 90-degree heat and all, and Jake wonders what would happen if their air conditioning happened to go out.

“Amy Santiago,” Amy says breezily, shaking his hand. “Classic literature. I’m starting here today.”

Jake gives a slight laugh. “Yeah. Welcome aboard.”

-

The next time they talk, Amy’s standing in his classroom doorway, tight-lipped and severe.

“Ms. Santiago,” Jake says once he notices her, standing and waving at his students to be quiet. Cagney lowers her phone and Nikolaj, standing in the middle of the room, lowers the water gun in his hand. “Can I help you?”

“Can you keep it down? My students are taking a test.”

“A _test?_ It’s barely the second week of class.”

“Not that it matters, but it’s ungraded,” Amy says, rolling her eyes. “It’s just for me to see where everyone’s reading and writing levels are. But I can’t get an accurate account of that unless they’re able to properly focus, so…”

Jake looks across his room at his students, who are staring at the two of them, their eyes wide.

Then he looks back at Amy, all crossed arms and frowns. He’s pretty sure if he takes any longer, her foot is going to start tapping on the floor, and then he’s really going to go insane.

Jake sighs. “Fine. But I want you to understand that this is an educational demonstration that this group has been planning for three days, and that you have just disrupted our entire learning plan for the day.”

Amy looks around the room, at the desks pushed against the walls, at the water gun in Nikolaj’s hand and the phone in Cagney’s, and raises her eyebrows. “Sure.”

She closes the door on her way out, and Jake sinks into his chair with a groan.

“All right, change of plans,” he says, trying very hard not to bang his head against the wall. “We’re watching _Pulp Fiction_.”

Later, after all the kids have gone home and a very tense conversation with Rosa that entails many a “who the _hell_ does she think she is” from Jake and mostly silence with the occasional “just go talk to her” from Rosa, Jake stops by Amy’s classroom.

She’s still there, poring over what is probably the tests from earlier that day with a purple pen. He knocks twice on the doorframe before stepping over the threshold.

“Oh, hi,” she says, looking up.

“You know what the worst part about filmmaking is?” Jake asks without preamble. “The inaccessibility. Thousand-dollar cameras, hundred-dollar sound systems, editing software that costs four hundred dollars, it’s all insane. I mean, sure, some directors would have you believe that the purest form of film is shot on an iPhone, but they would never do that themselves, unless it was for some kind of indie, weird art project that they put on YouTube before they go back to their million-dollar sets.”

Amy lets her pen drop to her desk and leans back in her chair, watching him approach her desk.

“And I don’t know what it’s like at private school—you’d have to ask the rich folks at Vulture Academy for that—but there’s no way we could ever muster up enough money for these kids to use even a fraction of what a professional film production could use,” Jake continues. “And I know you graduated from—what, Yale?—and—”

“Harvard,” Amy says quietly.

“—Harvard, and you’re probably used to having enough funding for whatever projects you might want, but we don’t have those kinds of resources here. I mean, half of these kids can barely afford to eat. So, then, the ones that actually want to go into film—they go into film programs with no experience using the cameras they have to use, or the mics, or the lighting setups.”

Amy nods.

“And so,” Jake says, folding his arms, “I teach them the other stuff. The stuff that’ll give them an intellectual advantage when they get to college, and beyond. The intangibles. I teach them how different camera angles can elicit different emotions, how different colors convey different themes. I teach them how you can manipulate the same scene in a hundred different ways to mean a hundred different things—if you just shoot it differently. And then I make them try it.”

Amy’s expression is unreadable. Jake barrels ahead, undeterred. “What you saw today was a scene from _Jason Bourne_. Once a week, we watch a different movie, and then I have them shoot a scene from it themselves—first in as close of a parallel to the original as possible, and then in a way that makes the scene mean something different. And then we analyze them, fleshing out the details of what made the scenes mean what they do. It’s one of my most popular activities, and I’ve been doing it for years.”

“That,” Amy says slowly, “Is actually incredibly impressive.”

Jake blinks. “Uh, thanks.”

There’s a beat of silence, during which Jake mentally shelves all of the _of course you wouldn’t get it_ s and _we don’t do things like that here_ s he had prepared, and then he says, “So, I just wanted to say—I want us to have a good working relationship, and I do welcome you to this school and this classroom, but I would also appreciate some respect. Both for me, and for the way I do things.”

Amy stands, tilting her head slightly. Something has changed in the way she looks at him, Jake notices—her expression is a little less disdainful, a little more appreciative.

“Of course,” she says evenly. “And I apologize for earlier—I didn’t know. If you can let me know ahead of time about the days you’re planning to do your—uh, reenactments, I can prepare accordingly.”

“Thank you,” Jake says, mildly surprised at how well this has gone. “And if you give me a heads up about your probably too-frequent test dates, I can make sure we’re not too rowdy.”

The corner of her mouth twists into a half-smile. “I’ll send it along.”

An unread email is waiting for him when he gets back to his desk, complete with a whole Excel sheet.

_Attached. Please let me know if any of these dates coincide with reenactments of period pieces, as those take priority over my exams._

Jake snorts, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he types his response.

_Period pieces, huh? I’d expect nothing less. Or nothing more, I guess._

His computer dings less than a minute later.

_Says the guy with a full-size Die Hard poster in his classroom, where he teaches, as an adult job._

A smile floats unwittingly to his lips.

-

Jake takes full advantage of Superhero Day, using it to stage mini productions of everyone’s favorite Marvel and DC movies. He lobbies the student government to include Superhero Day or Celebrity Day in Spirit Week every semester, and so far, they haven’t turned him down.

“Okay, so, you’ve just exited the War Office, shaken by what you’ve seen. Mr. Trevor, _get in position_.”

“Sorry,” Nikolaj says, scrambling to the back of the room.

“I love your costume,” Jake tells him.

“Yeah, I didn’t have a superhero costume and I didn’t want to buy one, so—”

“But you own an exact replica of a very specific Steve Trevor outfit from the 2017 film _Wonder Woman_?”

“Guys,” Lacey says loudly from the doorway. “Can we talk about Nikolaj’s closet some other time?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry—okay, camera ready?”

Cagney nods, her finger hovering over the screen of her iPhone.

“Can I watch?”

The entire room stills. Lacey steps aside, eyes wide, to reveal Amy standing in the doorway.

“Well, hello, Madame Supergirl,” Jake says, trying not to sound surprised. “Don’t you have your own class to teach?”

“There’s a free college application prep session today,” Amy says, shrugging. “So all the seniors are there, and I have the afternoon off. Figured I’d stop by, see the master work in person.”

“We’d love to have you,” Nikolaj pipes up, ignoring the glare Jake sends in his direction.

“Yes, we sure would,” Jake says, trying to hide the exasperation in his voice as he waves at Amy to enter the room. “But this production is a well-oiled machine, and if you disturb it—”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Amy says smoothly, slipping into an empty desk. Her cape flutters slightly as she settles into her chair.

“Yeah, I bet,” Jake mutters.

“Action!” shouts Cagney, and Lacey storms into the room, her coat billowing behind her.

-

“I mean, why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Why would she want to—I mean, why did she come to my class?”

Charles shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. “Maybe you made the exercise sound so appealing, she wanted to see what it was like.”

“More like she wanted to snoop on my methods so she could talk to her friends about how juvenile they are and how much better she is than me.”

“I really think you’re overanalyzing this, Jake.”

“Well, has she come to watch _you_ teach?”

“I teach freshman biology,” Charles says flatly. “My classes are not exactly groundbreaking.”

“Man, if they’re gonna let her teach classic lit and me teach film, they really should let you teach at least one cooking class.”

“I’ve been saying that for years!”

“You’re just insecure, babe,” Gina sings, gesturing vaguely at the bar. “Chug another beer and relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rosa mutters, watching Gina teeter on her stool. “You’re, what, five drinks in?”

“I don’t come to Shaw’s to _not_ drink.”

“Anyway, I don’t know what her game is, but I don’t like it,” Jake says, deftly slipping Gina’s glass out of her hand and passing it to Rosa. “She graduates from Harvard and comes to teach at a random public school in Brooklyn? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Rosa says, downing the rest of Gina’s wine. “But you could just ask her.”

“Why is all of your advice so practical?”

“I teach calculus.”

-

On Halloween, Jake stops by Amy’s classroom with a very large cardboard box.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Semicolon,” she says, pointing at the ring around her head.

“God, that is the worst thing I have ever heard.”

“Well, we can’t all just throw on a dirty tank top and call it a day, Mister McClane.” She points at the box in his hand. “Am I being evicted?”

“Not yet.” Jake drops the box next to her wall. “We do a food drive every year before Thanksgiving. Winning homeroom gets free Jamba Juice, and the teacher gets to opt out of Saturday School in the spring.”

“Oh, cool. Okay.”

Jake nods, then does a double take as his eye catches a piece of paper pinned to the wall next to him, fluttering slightly in the breeze from the open window. He takes a step forward, turns, then takes another step backwards in shock.

The blank wall is no longer blank. Instead, it’s plastered with images, arranged into some kind of collage that somehow works aesthetically, even though Jake spots both a Spongebob meme and a beautiful photograph of a sprawling, green plain.

“What’s this?”

“Hmmm?” Amy peers up at him from her book. “Oh, we mapped out the character development in _Les Misérables_ with moodboards.”

“You did _what_?”

“Well, you know, classic literature can be hard for these kids to read. One might even say it can be—ah—inaccessible.”

Jake spins around to see Amy walking towards him, smirking.

“Anyway, the biggest obstacle to a true appreciation of many classic works is understanding. If they find it hard to understand what they’re reading, they’re not going to have the brain capacity to connect to the characters and the story, or really flesh out the plot for its details.”

“So you turn it into accessible language,” Jake says slowly.

“The most accessible of all,” Amy says, coming to a stop beside him. “Images. Pictures, eliciting tone and emotion in a way that a thousand written analyses could never do. I mean, I could tell you about the self-sacrificial mindset the young French revolutionaries had, or…”

She points to a photo about halfway down the wall, under a column labeled ENJOLRAS. A character Jake is pretty sure is from Animal Crossing stands in front of a burning building, and the words _bold of you to assume i fear death_ are printed across the bottom.

“…I could show you that, and you’d pretty much get the gist of it.”

“Wow,” Jake says, laughing slightly. “I really would not have expected this from you. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but normally literature people are such purists. It’s why a lot of students are discouraged from reading it before they even start.”

“And that’s a huge problem!” Amy’s eyes are wide, and excitement is starting to enter her voice. “I mean, classic lit is classic because it’s _awesome_ , not because it comes with a built-in superiority complex. So many people think they dislike it, but they either give up because of the language barrier or because so many of the people who like it are so arrogant about it. But isn’t the whole point of art to be enjoyed? To be appreciated?”

She gestures at the wall in front of her. “I mean, this seems ridiculous to a lot of people, but it works. It helps these kids get into the story, it helps them understand it. And once they do? They love and understand it better than a lot of people with PhDs, and they write the papers to prove it.”

Jake stares at the massive assortment of photos in front of him, dumbfounded. “This…this is _so cool._ ”

She beams at him. “Thanks.”

Jake hesitates for a moment, then tucks his hands in his pockets. “Can I ask you something?”

Amy nods.

“Why are you here?”

“My parents live in Brooklyn,” she says easily. “And they’re getting up there in age, so I wanted to be closer to them.”

“No, I mean—why are you _here?_ At John Roebling? I mean, you’re welcome here, obviously, but you graduated from _Harvard_. Surely you had job offers from better places than this. I mean, I love it here, and I’d never leave, but I also know what they’re paying me.”

“You mean, why don’t I think I’m too good to be here?”

Jake blinks, then shrugs. “You said it, not me.”

Amy laughs. “I grew up in public school, Jake. My parents are both immigrants, and I have seven older brothers. We didn’t exactly have the money for private schools and their uniforms, and besides—we were all a little too scrappy for that, anyway. I went to Harvard because I had good grades and a lot of scholarship money.”

“Oh,” says Jake.

“My AP Lit teacher was the reason I majored in English, actually.”

Jake scuffs his toe against the ground, suddenly uncomfortable. “I—uh—I shouldn’t have assumed. Sorry.”

Amy gives an airy wave of her hand. “It’s okay. I did go to school with a lot of people who fit the exact description of the person you thought I was, so. Our education system has a lot of work to do.”

Jake snorts, then hesitates. “Wait, why didn’t you stop me when I was railing on you for not getting us that one time?”

Amy gives him a small smile. “Well, it seemed like you’d spent a lot of time thinking about that speech. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Jake ducks his head, trying to hide the flush spreading rapidly up his neck. “Well, I should go,” he mumbles. “Have to get ready for class.”

“Before you do—here.” Amy reaches into her candy basket and tosses him a small yellow packet. “For your trouble. Thanks for bringing my box over.”

Jake looks down at the candy, then looks back up, smiling slightly. “How did you know I like Sour Patch Kids?”

“Charles gave me a list of your likes and dislikes.”

“I’m going to murder him.”

-

Principal Holt is fairly good at running staff meetings.

He keeps things concise and to the point, never making them stay for longer than is strictly necessary, which is a big part of the reason no one ever complains about attending them.

Also, he says everything in the exact same tone of voice, which is why Jake almost misses the most important information that has ever been disclosed in a staff meeting, ever.

“The Landmark Theater is allowing schools to use one of their screens for a night, should anyone here want to hold an event or design a project that could utilize a movie theater.”

“I want to,” Amy says quickly, and the enthusiasm in her voice is the only reason Jake looks up from the very intense game of Scrabble on his phone.

“No, wait,” he says, after his brain has had a chance to catch up. “I want it.”

“I claimed it first.”

“I’m a film teacher! It makes the most sense for my class to have it. What is a literature class gonna do in a movie theater?”

“It would allow for a more innovative curriculum! Books have been adapted into movies since the beginning of film. I could stretch my kids’ minds, go beyond the traditional literature class—”

“Okay, well the fact that you had to explain that connection and that I don’t, because I _teach a literal film class_ , should be enough to show anyone that I have the stronger claim here.”

“I don’t want to fight you about this,” she says, looking very much ready to fight him about this. “But I want the theater.”

“This is a unique opportunity,” Holt says slowly. “And I want every teacher to have an equal chance of utilizing it.”

“That settles it, then,” comes a drawl from the other side of the room. Everyone turns at once to see Gina, leaning against the doorframe and taking a long sip from the McDonalds’ cup in her hand.

Amy’s eyes flash indignantly. “How on _earth_ does that settle anything?”

“Anyone who wants it should compete for it,” Gina says, as if it should be obvious. “That’s the only fair way to do this.”

“Gina,” Holt says warningly.

“No, she’s right,” Rosa cuts in. “I think they should compete for it.”

“The food drive,” Amy says, staring defiantly at Jake. “Whoever gets the most wins.”

Jake meets her eyes, determination building slowly in his gut. “You’re on.”

“Okay!” Gina crows triumphantly. “Food donated by students only—nothing from teachers, friends, or other outsiders. You may not offer additional incentives for donations—no extra credit, no homework passes, nothing. Everything must be logged and signed by the donor. Donations will be collected by Charles at the end of each day to prevent tampering.”

“Hey,” protests Charles. “I didn’t agree to that.”

“ _God.”_ Gina rolls her eyes, then turns to Charles. “Charles Boyle, will you do me the favor of bringing me their donations at the end of each day, so that I can do the actual hard work?”

“Fine,” Charles mutters.

“Great. Rosa and I will assign different items scores based on quantity of food, then total them and write your running total on your white boards before you get here in the morning. We will announce the winner via staff-wide email the first day of Thanksgiving Break. You are not allowed to be awkward at the annual Thanksgiving bash.”

“At the what?” asks Amy.

“It’s just Friendsgiving,” Jake explains. “We rotate houses every year. It’s a potluck, everyone goes. The sign-up sheet will go out next week.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It is.”

“Stay focused!” Gina snaps her fingers loudly, making everyone jump. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” says Holt. “Is there any chance that I can stop this from happening?”

“Nope!” Gina says cheerily. She claps her hands. “May the best food collector win. Meeting adjourned!”

-

Jake is on his way to Starbucks when he sees Amy through the window of an indie bookstore.

She’s bent over a stack of papers similar in size to the one currently weighing down Jake’s messenger bag, and it only takes him a second to decide what to do.

“You know there’s a coffee shop just down the street, right?”

She looks up. “I like the ambience here better.”

“Ew.”

Amy laughs. “They sell coffee and tea here too, and it’s less corporate than a Starbucks.”

“Yeah, but it’s called _Pegasus Books_.”

“I like the name! It’s charming!”

“You would.”

She rolls her eyes, smiling slightly, then gestures at the chair across from her. “Assuming you were headed to Starbucks to grade papers, you’re welcome to join me here instead. I’ll even buy you a drink as a welcome gift.”

“Make it a chocolate croissant and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

-

“So, how many cans did you get today?”

“Thirteen,” Jake says, taking a bite of his pizza. “But I also got a few boxes of pasta, and Ava dropped off a huge bag of rice that has to be worth at least three cans.”

“And what’s Amy at?”

“Seventy-four, this morning,” Jake says automatically.

Charles makes a non-committal noise as he takes a sip of water. “That’s close.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Spit it out, Charles.”

“It’s nothing,” Charles says carefully. “It’s just—I was talking to Holt, and—”

“Since when do you talk to Holt?”

“He’s the principal,” Charles says, almost defensively. “We all talk to him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, I was talking to Holt, and he mentioned that he was worried this would damage your relationship with Amy. Especially since you weren’t exactly instant friends when she got here.”

Jake scoffs. “She left a draft of a spring curriculum that culminates in a digital literary festival on my desk this morning. It was ten pages long. I think we’re fine.”

“I’m just saying.” Charles reaches over to grab another slice of pizza, raising his eyebrows as he does. “Be careful.”

-

The first Saturday of break, Jake wakes up to an email announcing that his class earned a grand total of 93 points, somewhat narrowly edging out Amy’s 84.

He grins, suddenly wide awake, then hits the _Reply All_ button.

_JAKE WINS, AMY LOSES!!! And all is right in the world. Clear your calendars for the dope-ass film festival I’m about to hold in May._

A flurry of emails enters his inbox, some more congratulatory than others (“ _Please refrain from using profanity in work emails and inform me of your requested date at your earliest convenience,”_ writes Holt), but none of them are from Amy.

Jake frowns, then composes a new email.

 _U ok? I have some resources for you:_ [www.wikihow.com/Accept-Defeat-Gracefully](http://www.wikihow.com/Accept-Defeat-Gracefully)

His phone chimes a moment later.

_Very funny. I think I’ll live—and as much as it pains me to admit, I’m actually looking forward to seeing what your students put together for your film festival. See you Wednesday, and congratulations._

_P.S. Still on for our weekly bookstore grading sesh? I have a mountain of essays about the modern relevance of_ Pride and Prejudice _to go through. Suppose it’s my fault for assigning so much work right before break._

A grin finds its way onto Jake’s face as he types his response.

_Duh. I promised Holt I’d go Black Friday shopping with him, though, so I’ll be there around 4. no essays to grade but I do have a film fest to plan (!!1)_

-

Thanksgiving is a complicated holiday.

When he was a kid, his mom would cook the smallest turkey she could find at the store, and they’d eat it with _Die Hard_ playing on the TV and mashed potatoes from KFC. He’d thank his mom and smile at her, but privately he’d think about the stories he was going to hear at school about raucous family dinners and uncles getting into drunken arguments and wonder if he’d ever get to experience something like that.

Now, he gets Friendsgiving, which is warm and happy and everything he’s ever wanted.

Sure, in a few days he’ll take a turkey to his mom’s house, and they’ll laugh and eat to the point of exhaustion, and Jake will love it—but that’s been his Thanksgiving for twenty years now, and it’s nice that he’s been able to find a second family at work.

Plus, Charles really knows how to cook a turkey.

He shows up at Rosa’s house fifteen minutes late, thanks to a snafu that had resulted in a large amount of grunting and yelling, an abandoned silk tie in favor of a clip-on, and one stubbed toe. Rosa greets him with a grin and a glass of wine, which she exchanges for the pie in his hands before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Everyone else is already seated when he walks in, and he slips into his chair with a wide smile and a growling stomach.

“I normally hate salad, but that looks amazing,” he tells Amy.

“Thanks!” she beams, and Jake notices that she’s wearing lipstick, something she normally never does. She’s also wearing a dress, most of which is obscured by the table, but from the way her hair is landing softly on top of the fabric, he doesn’t think even Gina could find anything to criticize.

“You look great, by the way. Especially for someone who just lost the biggest competition of their lifetime.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “I wish I could say the same for you, but the arrogance is really dominating your persona right now.”

“It’s actually _Euphoria_ by Calvin Klein.”

Just then, Rosa enters the room with a loud whoop and a large plate of biscuits, and the room dissolves into light chatter and the sound of forks clinking against plates. Jake doesn’t get to talk to Amy for the rest of the meal—Kevin, seated next to him, engages him in a surprisingly interesting conversation about critical race theory, and Gina’s mashed potatoes keep his mouth busy when it’s not asking for clarification about Kimberlé Crenshaw’s class at Columbia.

“She let me sit in on it once,” Kevin says proudly. “It was fascinating.”

“I bet,” Jake says around a mouth full of green beans. “She sounds incredible.”

Once everyone is stuffed to the point of mild nausea, the table is cleared and everyone wanders into the living room, drinks and desserts in hand. Holt steals his husband away, leaving an opportune moment for Rosa to sidle up to Jake’s side.

“It’s your turn to do the dishes.”

“ _God,_ Rosa, really?”

She shrugs. “It’s tradition. Amy volunteered to help; if you hurry you can be done in twenty minutes.”

Amy’s already started by the time he gets to the kitchen, and she greets him with a brief nod. “I’ll rinse if you put them in the dishwasher.”

“Deal.”

He’s barely five plates in before she pauses, frowning.

“What?”

“That’s not a very space-efficient way to do it.”

“It’s putting plates in a dishwasher, Ames, not mechanical engineering.”

A trace of amusement, accompanied by something Jake can’t quite place, flickers in her eyes. “Well, the more efficient you are with space, the more you fit in one load, and the more Rosa saves on her water bill.”

“You are insatiable,” he mutters, and she smiles.

“Here,” she says, handing him the sponge in her hand. “We’ll switch. Watch and learn, baby.”

She places each plate, each bowl, and each piece of silverware with deliberate care, sliding each one into place with such precision that, when they’re done, it looks like a meticulously crafted display one would see while trying to buy a dishwasher online.

“I am shocked that didn’t take you five hours,” Jake says, wiping his hands on the dish towel.

“Practice.”

Jake laughs. “Friendsgiving is at my place next year—would it be bad to ask you to be on dish duty again? I’m sure Charles would pay you to take his spot.”

The smile fades slowly from Amy’s face. “Actually—I have to tell you something.”

Jake pauses. “Okay.”

Amy takes a deep breath, gripping the towel in her hands so tightly Jake is surprised it doesn’t tear in half.

“This might be my only year here,” she says, her voice barely audible.

There is a beat of silence, and then Jake says, “ _What?_ ”

“I told you I moved to Brooklyn to be closer to my parents—and that was true,” Amy says helplessly. “But I also moved because—well, last year, I applied to a job at Vulture Academy.”

Jake stares at her, dumbfounded.

“They told me they were fully staffed, but that they were expecting a slot to open up in a year, and that if I wanted it—um, if I wanted it, they’d love to have me.”

Her voice is hesitant, almost timid, and Jake wants nothing more than to punch the wall beside him.

“I thought they were lying, that they were bluffing, but I moved anyway. Took this job instead, figured—well, it doesn’t matter now. They—um—they called me this morning. They’re interviewing me over winter break.”

A moment, not unlike the one between a bolt of lightning and its sound, passes.

“Jake?” She whispers, and the tears in her eyes send a jolt of fury down Jake’s spine. “Say something.”

Jake’s jaw clenches so tightly he thinks he might snap a nerve. He takes a deep breath, then steels himself.

“So you—the whole time, you never wanted this job. We were just a pit stop on your way to true success, just a stepping-stone to the next big thing. Something to fill the time while you waited for the thing you actually wanted to do.”

“No—"

“I can’t believe I thought you were different,” Jake snarls, a barely controlled shake in his voice. “But you’re just like every other Ivy League grad who thinks they’re too good for public school. Who can’t wait to get back to their tea parties and their country clubs. Can’t get away from the kids here fast enough, huh?”

“That’s not it,” Amy protests, shaking her head, but Jake finds that he doesn’t care what she has to say at all.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve enjoyed your gap year here,” Jake says coldly. “Try not to bad-mouth us too much in front of your new Harvard pals.”

“Jake, that’s not—”

“Whatever,” he says, turning to leave. “See you around, Santiago.”

He enters the living room, heading directly to where Gina is spinning in circles with a martini glass in her hand. He pretends not to notice that Amy doesn’t follow him, and when he hears the front door open and shut, he pretends not to hear that, too.

-

Jake sticks by Holt through five hours of antique stores and furniture warehouses, offering advice when asked and sarcastic remarks when not. Holt rewards him with lunch, a trip to the Nike store, and an afternoon stop by Sal’s Pizza.

“We ate lunch two hours ago,” Holt says drily, watching Jake wolf down his third slice of Meat Supreme.

“Two hours is a long time!” Jake shrugs. “Besides, it’s not like I have any afternoon plans, so whatever this does to my digestive system is fair game.”

Holt wrinkles his nose in disgust, then hesitates. “Don’t you usually meet Santiago at that independent bookstore on Fridays? Are you taking a week off for Thanksgiving?”

Jake nearly chokes on his pizza. “How did you know about that?”

“Boyle saw the two of you a few weeks ago.”

“Of course he did.” Jake takes a sip of his soda to calm himself, then sinks a few inches lower in his chair. “And no, I’m not meeting her. We got into it at Friendsgiving, when she—when she, uh…”

“When she told you she was interviewing at Vulture Academy,” Holt supplies.

“Are you secretly a detective, or something? What is going on?”

“She told me shortly after they invited her in for the interview.” Holt pauses, then folds his hands. “I would have thought you would be happy for her.”

“ _Happy_ for her? For going _there_?”

“Why do you even care if she leaves?”

“Because it’s _Vulture Academy!_ They’re the worst of the worst, just a bunch of rich snotty folks who’ve probably never step foot on a public-school campus their entire lives. And she’s leaping at the chance to join them.”

“So if she transferred somewhere else, you wouldn’t care at all.”

“No! It’s her life. I’m just mad that, of all the schools in Brooklyn, she chose the most conceited, stuck-up one. Why wouldn’t you be mad at that?”

“Vulture Academy will pay her far more than any public school ever could,” Holt says calmly. “It will also look better on a resume if she ever decides to pursue a career in higher education, or if she wants to apply to PhD programs in the future. I would never tell her to turn that down.”

“Santiago doesn’t come from wealth or privilege,” he continues, his voice careful. “She had to fight her way to the top, in ways you could never understand. It’s not up to either of us to tell her how to live her life, especially when she’s more than earned every ounce of success that she has.”

Holt pauses, letting Jake stew in his words for a moment. “I would guess that she worked harder than at least three-fourths of her class for that Harvard degree. She deserves to do what she wants with it.”

Jake stays silent, an uncomfortable amount of guilt starting to swim in his stomach.

Holt hesitates, then speaks softly. “I think you’re upset because you don’t want to admit how much you actually like her being here.”

Jake scoffs. “That is _not—”_

“I think you enjoy the presence she brings to this school, and rightly so. She is a powerhouse that we are lucky to have, even if it’s just for a year. And I think you’ve thrown yourself so deeply into competitions and witty banter that you haven’t allowed yourself to take a step back and realize that she’s become your _friend_.”

There is a beat of silence, during which Jake’s eyes inexplicably start to burn.

“It’s okay to fear the loss of a friend,” Holt says quietly. “But I urge you not to let that fear manifest itself in ways that might actually cause you to lose her.”

-

Amy isn’t at the bookstore when Jake gets there.

She _is_ in her classroom at 6:30 am on Monday, which is when Jake arrives after two days of simmering in guilt and turmoil.

He taps hesitantly on the doorframe, swallowing nervously when she looks up from her notes.

“Hey,” he says softly, but Amy holds up a hand to stop him before he can start his extremely-rehearsed apology.

“Before you say anything,” Amy says flatly, “I want you to know that I am not going to apologize for taking a job that I want to take.”

“No,” Jake says, stumbling over his words, “No, I’d never—"

“My parents worked multiple jobs and kept shoestring budgets so that they could send my brothers and me to school. I am not ashamed about taking a job that’ll allow me to live more comfortably, and save for any children I might have in the future.”

“I’m here to apologize,” Jake says hastily.

His words are met by a flicker of surprise in Amy’s eyes, which is followed by a wariness that makes his heart clench.

He takes a deep breath, then dives in. “I was way out of line. And I did a lot of things wrong. Even if what I said was true, and valid, which it wasn’t, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. It was disrespectful and gross and I promise it was not at all indicative of how I feel about you, as a friend and as a colleague.”

Amy’s expression remains inscrutable. Jake tries not to take that as a bad sign.

“More importantly, though, the things I said were terrible and wrong and not true. You’re an incredible teacher and you’ve worked incredibly hard for everything you have. I know you’re not elitist, and I know you don’t look down on public schools. I was projecting my own fears and insecurities, because I—um, I really like having you here, and I was scared at the thought of you leaving. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and I don’t think I realized how well you’ve assimilated into this school and this staff and the idea that you might leave so soon was just a shock, I guess. But that was no excuse for the way I acted, and I’m sorry—and I’m happy to serve as a reference for Vulture if you need me to, even though you probably have way more accomplished people you can list.”

“The point is,” Jake says, scuffing his toe against the floor, “I’m sorry. And I’ll miss you—we all will—but Vulture will be lucky to have you.”

Amy studies him for a truly painful amount of time, then sets her pen down.

“Thank you,” she says finally.

“And if you—if you want the theater—I want your only year here to be special, so—”

“Oh, no,” Amy says, laughing slightly and shaking her head. “No, you won that fair and square. And you were right—it makes more sense for you to have it.”

She gives Jake a small smile that melts away some of the anxiety in his heart. “It means a lot that you offered, though.”

He shrugs somewhat uncomfortably. “Least I could do.”

Amy stands, then walks towards him with her hand outstretched. “Apology accepted. And thank you for the nice things you said.”

“We have to shake hands?”

“I’m a Harvard grad,” Amy says wryly, the faintest of smiles ghosting across her face. “It’s the way we do things.”

Jake laughs, then shakes her hand, and something feels like it falls into place.

-

The rest of the semester passes in a blur of reviews and essays and chatter among the students about the film festival Mr. Peralta is supposedly planning as their Spring final (Jake isn’t sure how they heard about it, but he’s willing to bet Gina planted the rumor through a particularly gossipy sophomore). Before he knows it, his last class is filing out the door and he’s gathering up the final exams on his desk to take to his apartment, where he’s going to be marathoning _Die Hard_ for the next two weeks.

He’s spent the last month painstakingly sketching out a curriculum for the next semester that culminates in the film festival, and he is going to spend fourteen days not thinking about work at all, so help him God.

Jake takes a moment to look around the classroom, taking in the holiday decorations that will be gone when he returns, and lets himself revel in the moment. The last day before Winter Break is always a joy, full of students excited for some time off and a staff in high spirits, thanks to the atmosphere of the general world around Christmastime.

He’s just about to get out of his chair when Amy pokes her head through the door.

“Oh, hey,” Jake says, grinning. “Heard you gave a particularly brutal final. Ava has me two periods after she has you, and she was still complaining about hand cramps.”

Amy rolls her eyes. “It’s a literature class, they should be able to write a comprehensive essay in two hours.” She tosses him a candy cane. “Holt called a last-minute staff meeting. Wanted me to tell you just in case you hadn’t checked your email.”

“I was planning on not checking it for the next two weeks,” Jake says, hauling himself to a standing position. “So that was a good call.”

Holt’s face is sober when they enter (which is to say it looks exactly how it would if he was to win the lottery, but Jake has learned to read the energy he’s giving off by now), and as they take their seats Jake wonders what kind of bad news they’re about to get.

As it turns out, it is one of the worst kinds.

“The Landmark Theatre is shutting down,” Holt announces without preamble. “It has been bleeding cash for the past year, apparently, and the offer to let high schools use it was a last-ditch effort to attract some foot traffic. Unfortunately, they couldn’t even make it long enough to implement that plan.”

Jake feels suddenly as if the air has been sucked out of his lungs. “So—so there’s—so I can’t do—”

“There’s no film festival,” Holt says quietly.

“So that’s it? There’s nothing else we can do? I’m supposed to tell these kids that we _almost_ had a chance for them to finally get _one nice thing_ at this school but we can’t anymore? Can we rent another theater, or something?”

“Jake,” Holt says evenly. “There is no need for dramatics. You will simply teach the same curriculum you always teach.”

Jake opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it when he happens to glance at Amy, whose face is completely, utterly blank. And then, suddenly, it turns furious. 

“With all due respect, sir,” she says, her voice terse, “Jake’s been planning this for weeks. He’s built an entire, brand new curriculum around having the theater for his final, and now you’re telling him all that work was for nothing. He’s allowed to be upset.”

Holt blinks, and the rest of the room falls into a shocked silence.

“Well,” Jake says at last, gathering his bag into his arms, “If Santiago says I’m allowed to be upset, then I’m allowed to be upset. See you all in January.”

-

He doesn’t go home.

Instead, Jake goes back to his classroom and slumps back into his chair. He pulls a stack of final exams out of his bag, the thought of returning to his cold, empty apartment suddenly exceedingly unappealing. Even _Die Hard_ isn’t enough to get him to be excited about the break, anymore, and he figures he might as well embrace the dejection and grade some tests.

The thing about winter is that the sun sets at 6 o’clock, which means it’s pitch black outside when Jake looks up for the first time.

He rubs his eyes blearily, trying to clear his brain. His stomach growls loudly, and Jake wonders distantly if he could scavenge some nachos from the cafeteria.

The cafeteria, predictably, is locked, so he heads to the staff lounge and stuffs a dollar into the vending machine.

He’s just bending down to retrieve his Doritos when he hears a soft voice behind him.

“Hey.”

He turns to see Amy, leaning against the doorframe with a soft smile on her face. She’s dressed instead only a baby blue button-up, having presumably abandoned her blazer, and her mascara is smudged from where she presumably rubbed her eyes while grading the stack of papers currently in her arms. This is an after-hours Amy, a softer, less refined, not-at-work Amy, and something about the way wisps of her hair are falling out of her once-perfectly rigid bun makes Jake’s chest feel tight. 

“You wear glasses?” is what comes out of his mouth. 

Her mouth twists into a dry smirk. “Contacts dried up. I’ve been here grading papers for what feels like ten thousand years. What are you still doing here?”

“Same,” he says, gesturing at the stack of paper on the table. “I usually take them home, but after today...I dunno. Guess I just wanted to delay leaving for as long as possible.”

“Me too, actually,” she says softly, maneuvering around him to insert her own dollar into the vending machine. “For some reason it feels like getting home means the day is really over. It’ll mean it’s all real.”

“Yeah.” Jake sighs, watching her snack fall out of its space. “Public school: where dreams go to die, apparently.”

Amy gives a short, bitter laugh as she crouches to retrieve her granola bar, shaking her head as she sticks her hand into the slot. There is a brief moment of silence, and then she looks up at him.

“I’m really sorry,” she says quietly. “I know how much that theater meant to you.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Still.”

He sighs, his fingers working at the plastic of his chip bag. “It’s not even—I mean, I’m disappointed, obviously. But I wanted this for my kids. They work so, so hard all year, and for once, I just wanted them to get what they deserve, you know? So much of their education feels like they’re just working for no reward, sometimes, and I just wanted them to get—“

“Some sort of instant gratification, for once,” Amy says, nodding. “I know.”

He sighs again, and she stands back up, her face full of sympathy. “You’re a good teacher, Jake. I see the passion you inspire in your kids. They love you. You have an ability to give films a sense of verisimilitude that many college professors could not, which allows your students to form uniquely powerful connections with the medium. And that shows in the art they make, in the work they do. Not having that theater isn’t gonna change that.”

In the darkness of the room around them, the glow of the vending machine casts an almost serene light onto her face. He thinks there are flecks of blue in the brown of her eyes, and something starts dancing at the tip of his tongue—a joke, maybe, about both of them needing to eat a real dinner, followed by a question. A proposition. 

Then he thinks about Charles, wiggling his eyebrows, about Holt, his voice full of concern but still genuinely inquisitive, about Vulture Academy, and he swallows all of it. 

“You should use the word ‘verisimilitude’ in your interview for Vulture,” he says instead. “I’m sure they’d hire you on the spot.”

Amy gives him a tight, slightly sad smile, and Jake wonders if he’s imaging the flicker of disappointment in her eyes.

“Good night, Jake,” she says, tearing open her granola bar and turning towards the door. “Don’t stay up too late.”

-

Two weeks is enough time for Jake to mostly get over it, and he enters the new semester with a resigned determination to make it the best he’s ever had anyway.

This is made substantially easier when Amy corners him in the staff lounge five minutes before his first class starts.

“I don’t have time for whatever you’re about to say to me,” Jake says, trying to maneuver around her. “I have a well-practiced routine, and it takes me the exact amount of time before class starts to spread cream cheese on a bagel and eat it as I walk to class.”

“I know. Here.” Amy shoves a warm bagel into his hands, and he blinks.

“How did you know my bagel of choice?”

“Everyone likes everything bagels,” Amy says dismissively. “Also, I’m observant.”

Jake studies her for a moment, then takes a bite. “Okay, you have ninety seconds.”

“Don’t tell your kids about the film festival yet,” she says hurriedly. “I might have an idea.”

“The theater is closing,” Jake says tiredly. “I don’t know that there’s much we can do.”

“Oh, no, we don’t need the theater. Are you doing anything at lunch? I’ll come by and tell you more then. Have a good class!”

She’s gone before Jake even has a chance to understand what’s happening, leaving him reeling in surprise with a half-eaten bagel in his hands.

-

Amy shows up thirty seconds after the last student has filed out of his classroom for lunch, plopping into the chair closest to Jake’s desk and shoving a fork into her Tupperware.

“We can host the film festival in the gym,” she says without preamble.

Jake pauses, his meatball sub hovering in the air near his mouth. “What?”

“Okay, so, I was doing a lot of thinking over break, and I realized—we don’t need a theater to host a film festival. We can do it here.”

“We have no equipment,” Jake points out. “No infrastructure for this.”

“Sure we do,” Amy says, shrugging. “The gym has a speaker system, right? We can roll out a projector from one of our classrooms, and screens are like a hundred and twenty bucks to buy. I’m sure we could crowdfund that money just from the teachers here. Or we could sell concessions, and I’m sure we’d even make that money back.”

Jake drops his sandwich on his desk, then leans forward. “I cannot believe I’ve never thought of this.”

“Plus, this is better than a one-time thing! You could do this every year, even after—well, you know, after I’m gone. Make it a permanent part of your curriculum.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, an idea forming slowly at the edges of his brain. “This could be good. But you have to do it with me.”

Amy knits her eyebrows together. “What?”

“A joint film fest,” says Jake. “Something about bridging the art forms. I don’t know, exactly, but I want you to be a part of this too. This is your idea, and it’s your last semester here—we can send you out on a high note.”

Amy bites her lip, clearly thinking hard. “That could be fun,” she muses.

“Right? So—”

“What if we made them do modern adaptations of classic literary works?”

Jake leans forward, resting his chin on his hands. “Continue.”

“We both have unique curricula, right? So we blend them. Make this a uniform thing. We have them reimagine classic literary pieces as modern short films—action movies, rom-coms, whatever. The more creative, the better.”

“We could pair our classes together,” he adds, excitement ramping up. “Break them into groups that are half from your class, half from mine.”

“Yes!” Amy claps her hands, then leans back, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “Okay, this is awesome. We have so much planning to do. Are you doing anything after school?”

“I am now.”

-

They spend the afternoon drafting and re-drafting an entire new curriculum, bent over a small, square table at _Pegasus_. There are a lot of excited agreements and a lot of arguments that end in compromise; Jake sacrifices the Christopher Nolan unit to keep the one on independent film, and Amy begrudgingly agrees that maybe one Tolstoy novel is enough. Jake makes it through four Cheese Danishes before Amy notices.

“Eating so many of those cannot be good for you.”

Jake shrugs, taking another bite. “Well, I’m hungry.”

They get through a rough plan for the semester and a specific plan for the next two weeks, and by the end of it Jake’s head feels like a jumble of tumbleweeds and fog.

“We’re taking a break,” he decides. “What’s your least favorite _Die Hard_ movie?”

“Do you want dinner?” Amy asks, pulling out her phone. “There’s a pizza place in the mall, I can go grab something.”

Jake’s stomach growls in response, and Amy laughs. “Be right back. Guard our spot.”

“With my life.”

Amy returns twenty minutes later with two personal pizzas and two salads. Jake wrinkles his nose and Amy tells him the salad is a requirement if he’s going to eat the pizza.

Neither of them speaks until they’re each two slices in, when Jake wipes his mouth with a napkin and pauses his relentless eating to take a sip of water.

“If you don’t slow down you’re going to choke,” Amy mutters.

“I’m sure you know CPR.”

Amy laughs. “I do, actually.”

“See? Also, you never answered my question. What’s your least favorite _Die Hard_ movie?”

Her smile turns softer, almost embarrassed. “I’ve actually never seen any of them.”

“You what?” Jake says, sounding very much like she just told him she was an axe murderer. “How?”

“I grew up in an immigrant family!” Amy says indignantly, laughing slightly. “We weren’t exactly up to date with pop culture. My parents were kind of too busy trying to save money for their eight kids to go to college to catch us up on American film.”

There’s a beat, and then Jake says, “that’s fair.”

“I mean, they’d take us to the movies, but anything that came out before I was old enough to see in theaters I basically haven’t seen.”

“ _Die Hard_ came out in 1988!”

“When I was _five_.”

“I watched it when I was five! That film basically raised me.”

Amy pauses. “Do we need to unpack that?”

“No, I’m working on it in therapy. What’s more important is remedying this immediate situation. We’re gonna watch it right now.”

“We are not.”

“Yes, we are! We’ve come up with specific lesson plans for the entire next two weeks. That’s the farthest ahead I’ve ever planned things.”

She gives him an exasperated look that does nothing to deter him.

“Come on, let loose a little,” he coaxes. “Take a break. Watch a movie.”

He doesn’t know what does it, but a slow smile spreads across Amy’s face. 

“Okay, fine,” she says, shutting her laptop. “Let’s see what the hype is all about.”

-

They announce to each of their classes on Tuesday, with the result that the hallway is flooded with cheering and excited chatter for the rest of the day. It is a testament to the kindness and understanding of their colleagues that no one comes kicking down their doors screaming at their classes to shut up.

The agreement, Jake explains, is that both teachers will generally follow their own curricula, so that those who signed up for a literature class will still be taking a literature class, and vice versa; but to keep things from getting complicated, they’ve aligned their class plans to complement each other where possible.

“This is your final, and we want you to put time and effort into it,” Jake says, grinning widely at the excited faces shining back at him. “So we’re setting aside every Friday to allow you time to work in your groups. You can use that time however you choose—planning, or shooting or editing when it gets later in the semester—but it has to be productive, obviously. The basic requirements and grading rubric are in the informational packet in front of you. This is a big assignment, but it’s also probably the coolest thing we’ve ever done, and it is going to be _so much fun_!”

The class cheers, Jake joins them, and he honestly feels like he’s floating on air.

-

As the semester progresses, Jake starts meeting Amy at the bookstore more and more often. There are more deadlines, more things to plan, and more schedules to write. By March, they’re there after school almost every day, poring over the progress checks they’ve administered to students and the regular papers they’re still having to grade.

It’s the most paperwork and organization Jake has ever done in all his years of teaching, and it’s exhausting.

“What if we stopped doing everything else and just went ham on the film fest?”

“They still have to learn other things, Jake.”

He’ll never admit it, but maybe it’s rewarding, too.

Charles, for one, delights in their frequent meetings, a fact which he shares openly and freely whenever Jake spends time with him.

“You eat dinner together!”

“Yeah, but only when we’re already both there—we don’t make plans to eat, it just happens—“

“That’s even more coupley! That’s past the date stage!”

“They’re _work sessions_.”

Charles wiggles his eyebrows. “You have never looked forward to work sessions in your life.”

Jake punches his friend, ignoring his yelp of protest. “Shut up and watch the movie, Charles.”

“Fine, but only because _Tangled_ is a work of art and deserves everyone’s full attention.”

-

Despite Charles’ incessant needling, the semester passes incredibly quickly, and before he knows it finals week is over and Jake is standing in the middle of the gym, surrounded by banners and folding chairs and the scent of popcorn.

There are students, family members, and staff members alike milling around the gym, waiting for the festival to begin. He spots Amy talking to Rosa near the concessions stand and makes his way over to join them.

“Hey,” Amy says, beaming when she sees him approach. “I have to say, the decorations are insane.”

“Oh, I know. The kids really went all out.”

“That’s what genuine enthusiasm will do,” Rosa says gruffly, a small smile on her face. “This is really cool, you two. Well done.”

“That’s all Amy,” Jake says. “I’ve never met anyone as good anything as she is at her job.”

Amy blushes, clearly trying to hide the smile that is trying to make its way onto her face. “No, it wasn’t. Usually it is. But this was as much you as it was me, and I’m just lucky to have worked with someone who cares as much about this as much as you do.”

It’s Jake’s turn to blush. “It’s easy to care when the work you’re doing sees results, and our results are only good because of you,” he says.

“Gross,” says Rosa.

Amy gives him an almost embarrassed smile, then gestures toward the floor. “I’m gonna go make sure everything’s set up at our judges’ table,” she says. “See you in a bit.”

“So, are you gonna tell her before she leaves?” Rosa asks, watching Amy’s retreating back.

“Tell her what?”

Rosa stares at him for a second, and then, when it becomes clear that he isn’t joking, rolls her eyes. “How you feel.”

“How I—what?”

“Oh, my God,” Rosa says, her tone as shocked as Rosa can make it. “You don’t even know.”

“What? What don’t I know?”

Rosa shakes her head, giving him a fond smile as she picks her packet of Red Vines off the table. “Have fun grading, Jake. And congratulations, again.”

“Wait, what don’t I know?”

Rosa ignores him, instead turning to walk through the chairs and settle into a seat next to Gina.

Jake’s mild confusion and indignation is interrupted by Nikolaj, who has just arrived and is incredibly excited to talk to Jake about the newest _Batman_ movie, so he shoves the conversation into the back of his mind and lets himself enjoy the moment.

The clock hits seven before anyone is ready for it, and Amy’s eyes gleam in the darkness next to him.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispers, watching the first title credit fade onto the screen. “Like, we really did it.”

“We really did,” Jake murmurs, and he feels the same way he does when he’s attending a midnight premiere and the movie is about to start—excited and exhilarated and like he can’t wait for what happens next, but also like he could live in this moment forever.

Then, Cagney’s face appears on the screen, and every other thought evaporates from his brain. The only coherent thought Jake forms throughout the entire event is that he wishes everyone who disses public high school students for not caring could be here, because every single film blows his mind.

There’s a retelling of _Jane Eyre_ as a horror short that is genuinely scary, even though Gateshead Hall is clearly the inside of Nikolaj’s house. _Persuasion_ is modernized into a contemporary romantic comedy, and the airport chase scene that culminates in Wentworth’s heart-wrenching, throw-it-all-on-the-line speech makes even Holt stand up and clap.

One group has a _Die Hard_ rendition of a section of the _Odyssey_ , which shouldn’t work but somehow does. Jake wants to give them a hundred and ten percent. Amy bans him from the scoresheet and gives them a raw score of 85, plus five extra points for knowing their audience. 

All in all, it is a night of truly spectacular literary analysis and film, and Jake is utterly overwhelmed with pride in his students and disbelief that this could actually happen, that it did actually happen.

“I just can’t believe we pulled it off,” Jake says, after everyone else has gone home and he and Amy are packing up the last of the chairs. “And it was _so fucking incredible_.”

“I _know_ ,” Amy says, her eyes shining. “If I stop to think about it so much I start to cry.”

“I’m just so proud, and like surprised, but also not surprised, you know? Like, I knew these kids were capable of incredible things, but this was just—”

“Next level,” Amy says, nodding. “I know.”

It is a testament to the emotional impact of the film festival that Jake almost doesn’t think about Amy leaving, or about the fact that, even if he throws another festival next year, this is one-time thing.

He almost doesn’t think about it, but as they wheel the last chairs back into storage and part ways in the parking lot, he thinks about it a little bit.

-

Okay, he thinks about it a lot bit.

He thinks about it so much, in fact, that it’s all he can talk about when he’s at his and Charles’ annual day-after-the-last-day-of-school lunch.

“It was just weird,” he says around a mouthful of his burrito. “I mean, I know we weren’t really thinking about it, but that was her last day here.”

“Well, yeah, because we all have Holt’s end-of-the-year party next week. I guess we all kind of figured that that’s where we’re saying our goodbyes.”

“I guess. It just feels unsatisfying, somehow. Like it’s missing something.”

“Well, maybe it is,” Charles says, uncharacteristically serious. “Maybe there’s something you want to tell her.”

As it turns out, there is—and Jake doesn’t completely figure it out until he’s knocking on the door of a foreign apartment whose address he found in the staff directory he’d thrown in his glove box nine months ago.

Amy opens the door with a book in her hand, taking in his disheveled appearance with a face full of confusion. “Jake?”

“Hi,” he says breathlessly, because for some reason he sprinted up the stairs. “I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she says slowly.

“I know you’re leaving, and I know that’s not gonna change, and that’s fine and I’m happy for you. I really am. But I’ve really come to like your being in my life, and I realized we never really talked about what happens after you’re gone. We never talked about what happens to—well—this,” Jake says, gesturing between the two of them.

“And I realized—I realized that I want to be your friend, obviously, forever, but I also—well, there’s no way to tell what happens when you leave, you know? Like, sure, we’ll both still be in Brooklyn, but so much of our lives are inside our schools, and friends grow apart and friendships end, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“Jake,” Amy says softly, but Jake isn’t done.

“And I know I’m gonna see you in, like, two days, at Holt’s thing, but I felt like I had to talk to you now, because—because I don’t know what’s gonna happen after this, and I think I’d be pissed at myself if I didn’t say this.”

He takes a deep breath, then dives in.

“I kinda wish something could happen between us,” he says, hardly daring to look at her face. “Like, romantic-stylez.”

Her face remains unreadable as she says, “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Jake breathes, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So. I just figured you should know.”

“Well, that was quite a speech,” Amy says, her voice betraying the slightest hint of amusement. “I suppose I should let you know that I already turned down the job.”

“You—what?”

“I told Vulture I didn’t want the job anymore,” she says, now openly grinning. “So I guess I also have news: I’ll be staying at John Roebling, at least for a little while.”

“But—what about the money? The prestige?”

“Oh, I’m making enough to live, especially considering how good I am at budgeting,” she says, laughing slightly. “And honestly, I’m not planning on teaching high school forever—but the level of experience I’m getting at John Roebling is honestly unparalleled. The film festival itself is something I could speak volumes about when I’m applying to PhD programs, and the curriculum I’ve developed for the students here might not work as well for the kids at Vulture.”

“There are a lot of solid, logical reasons for me to stay. There are also a lot of reasons for me to leave. But the truth is, I think I just really like this school,” she says, her voice soft. “More than I thought I would.”

A gentle smile floats to Jake’s lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shuffles her feet, almost nervously. “The students here are really cool, but I’ve really bonded with the teachers here, and I guess I’m just a bit hesitant to let that go so quickly.”

Amy gives him a smile that is slightly nervous and genuinely affectionate, and warmth blossoms in Jake’s chest. “Especially when I might want to see if one of them would be interested in pursuing something romantic-stylez, too.”

She takes a step towards him, and suddenly everything seems somehow more real, more intense—the air, the ground underneath his feet, her.

It should be overwhelming, but it isn’t. He leans down, she winds her arms around his neck, and Jake can’t help the way his heart skips as their lips meet in the middle.

Two days later, their friends hoot and holler as he kisses her again on Holt’s porch, and Jake knows—much like he knows that Gina is live-streaming the whole thing on Instagram, and that _Die Hard_ is the best movie of all time—that public school is the most magical place in the world.


End file.
